


The Sheik of Araby

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Roaring Hot [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dark Harley, Dark Tony, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob-Type Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Polyamory, dark bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Part 2 of the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic that literally no one asked for but that kept me up nights until I wrote it.It's Friday.  Peter meets the Sheik.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Harley Keener/Bucky, Harley Keener/Steve Rogers, Harley Keener/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Roaring Hot [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 33
Kudos: 422





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing mindwiped and jf4m, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. I'm sorry if you now need to clean up your soul. I'll... I'll pay for the cleaning, just get me the receipts.
> 
> If you've read darkfic before, proceed, mine is pretty tame so far (later chapters may get worse).
> 
> If you HAVEN'T read darkfic, let's have a quick chat about the genre. Darkfics are full of dubious consent, even abuse. This one will skirt the edges of that second option. There will be dubiously consentful sex, which you will be able to interpret either direction, your choice. There will be period-appropriate racism, sexism, all kinds of -ism. There will be prostitution and drugs and a bunch of violence, including strong corporal punishment and what looks like domestic abuse to me, but it's hard to say, because the victim sure seems fine with it, but it also might be some heavy gaslighting. Because I know underage squicks so many people, Peter will be of age when the sex starts, but that doesn't mean that the characters aren't going to mess with him (and turning 18 is not a magic wand for sexual relationships to be healthy). Darkfic is fun because it's not reality and it can let you have some nervous experiences without actually being endangered. Please proceed with your comfort level. You can email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com if you want to check in about specific triggers.

The next two days are slow. It feels like the whole house is waiting. There’s a brief flurry of activity in the bedroom as the bunkbed arrives. It’s an ornate brass monstrosity, inset with dark blue enamel, with blue curtains around the lower bunk. It takes hours for the workmen to set up on Thursday afternoon, and Peter plays a game with himself of what the workmen must be thinking of him and Harley, because he’s still in pajamas on the couch and Harley declared the day was too hot to wear a shirt at around noon and refuses to put one on, even with Jarvis’s cooly disapproving gaze on him. Or maybe the workmen are smart, Peter concedes, like he’s smart, and they try not to think too hard about anything they see or hear around this place. 

Karen comes up, then, a young sprightly girl with glasses, and scolds Harvey until he puts on an undershirt, and makes up the mattresses, and then purses her lips at Peter and asks if he’s soaked his feet yet that day, because no one asked her for his sitz packet. Harley turns red and argues that Peter’s feet are doing so much better, but Karen responds that the doc was going to be stopping by the next morning and  _ it’s their funeral. _ Peter puts his feet in the bath she brings him and doesn’t look at Harley’s dark expression. The blisters are mostly healed, but he’s learned not to argue.

Finally, though, it’s Friday afternoon. He can feel the time getting nearer and nearer because Harley is slowly losing the ability to sit still or hold coherent conversation.

“Okay,” spits Harley finally, “I’m going to go ask the doc if you can put on my slippers, this is insane, I can’t sit here, we’ll go to the main hall at least, be ready for them when they get here.” Peter nods because that huge room seems like it could just about contain Harley’s energy right now. “We’re getting you dressed, too,” announces Harley, as he leaves the room.

“Thank God,” whispers Peter, because it’s been a whole week of pajamas.

Harley returns with the doc, who smiles at Peter and says, “You haven’t killed him, I’m surprised. I’ve only been with him the last five and I’m ready to throttle him.”

Harley moans, “Doc, his feet, can he wear my slippers? Focus!”

The doc unwraps each foot silently, inspects it, and then re-wraps it. “Yeah, hellcat, go ahead,” he says fondly, eyes twinkling up at Peter. “Don’t you take this as an opportunity to run for it, kid,” he teases Peter. Peter shakes his head, wide eyed, as Harley growls at them both, “Knock it off, doc, he’s not going  _ anywhere _ . Tony’s almost home.”

The doc laughs and stands. “Well, finish wrapping him up and get yourselves downstairs, then.”

“Working on it,” grates Harley, tossing a pair of drawers and an undershirt at Peter. “Here, get started, angel.”

Peter slips on the clothing that Harley tosses at him and Harley considers him, pursing his lips. “Well, you still got some filling out to do, but you look good,” he concedes. “Glad I had Mrs. Friday give you that trim on Wednesday.” Peter winces in memory of the formidable woman descending on his head with the sharp scissors and wicked looking comb. “C’mon, take some steps, let’s go, Peter,” he says, and Peter stands up, surprised at how dizzying it is. He’s been walking slowly and carefully around the room under his own steam, but keeping up with Harley in the slippers down the long hall is another thing entirely. He’s a little winded at the bottom of the stairs, but it feels good to be moving. He’s surprised at how much it feels good, how light he feels, how happy. Maybe Harley’s mood is just that infectious, he considers.

Harley fidgets at the bottom of the stairs, sitting and then standing and then sitting again, and then finally declares, “Gonna go get my glove. You play ball?”

“Some,” admits Peter. Now’s not the time to explain about how he was saving for new shoes, a heavy coat, a pot to cook in when he left the Home, and how that left him little time to toss a ball. He hopes briefly that Ned and MJ remembered about his sock and split the dough between them. He hopes, even quieter, because he’s not sure, that they’re all still alive after Clint’s visit for his  _ paperwork _ .

Harley’s gone in a flash, back up the stairs. Peter rests against the bannister and fiddles with the ornate carving on the balustrade. Harley’s back just as quickly, laughing, tossing Peter a glove and shouting, “You can have my new one, it was signed by Lou Gehrig, Pepper got it for me but I haven’t broken it in yet,” as he runs past. He gets about halfway down the hall and turns, tossing the ball to Peter. Peter snaps it out of the air and tosses it back. Harley catches it easily, laughing, and throws it back. Peter has to jump a little, but he gets it, stepping off the stairs because the last thing he needs is to twist his ankle. He tosses the ball back to Harley, who slides to the left and tosses it back. 

They pass the ball back and forth, as servants scurry around them, ducking out of their way or forcing them to rush to catch a ball before it hits one of them. When Natasha wanders by and hisses, “Not helping, you two hooligans,” both Peter and Harley laugh, bending double, before Peter shies the ball at Harley’s head and he dodges quickly, shouting, “Hey, ya mook!”

Harley just sets him up for a highball, and Peter’s backing up and up and up, to the right of the stairs, when Harley shouts, “Mr. Stark!” in a voice full of glee. Peter takes his eyes off of the ball for a split second, because the front door hadn’t opened, he was sure of it, they’d been  _ waiting _ for it. He has to quick step back, then, to line himself up for the catch, only he  _ can’t _ , because he’s bumping into someone. “Oof,” he says, hearing a grunt from behind him, too, and then throws up the glove to catch the ball before it can hit the other body. “Sorry,” he chuckles, shaking off the hands that appear on his shoulders, “Sorry, we’re, he’s getting a little crazy with his throws, I’m sorry, you okay?”

He turns around and looks up. His jaw drops and he stutters, “Oh, God, s-sorry, Mr. Stark.”


	2. Chapter 2

Harley jogs up, his face alight, pulling Peter away from Mr. Stark to grab the man in a hug. “Tony!” he shouts again, face buried in the other man’s shoulder. “God, I missed you, please let’s go out tonight, the Fantastic has this dame with gams up to her tits, please Mr. Stark, I been dying without you.”

“Hey, Hellcat,” murmurs Mr. Stark, his eyebrows rising and his voice rich with suppressed laughter. He raises one hand to thread through Harley’s hair and tug, pulling the boy away from him and giving him a little shake. “Helluva greeting for me, getting trampled in my first three seconds home.”

“Oh, that’s my gift for you,” Harley says, laughing, grabbing for Peter’s arm. He shakes himself free of Mr. Stark’s hand and Peter winces because that didn’t look  _ pleasant _ , the man wasn’t exactly  _ letting go _ . Harley pushes Peter forward, an arm slung around his neck, and Peter can’t lift his gaze because he  _ tramped the man in his own mansion.  _ “He’s perfect, I want you to meet him, please, Mr. Stark, just  _ meet _ him.”

“Mm,” hums Mr. Stark, noncommittal. “Thirsty work, meeting people.”

“Oh, I’ll get you a glass,” offers Harley, already backing away from them, “What was I thinking, you’re home again, let me go, you want-”

“The Tennessee, please,” drawls Mr. Stark, and Peter can feel the man’s eyes hot on his face. The ball glove feels heavy on Peter’s hand but he can’t, like,  _ drop _ it.

“You got a name, gift?” asks Mr. Stark, and his voice is rich and electric with irony. Peter swallows and looks up at him, a quick glance. He straightens a little and says, “P-peter,” damn that stutter.

“Peter,” considers Mr. Stark. He tilts his head. “And I suppose Harley wants to tag a Stark on the end there.”

Peter shrugs, nervously, because it’s not  _ his _ plan, he shouldn’t have to defend it.

Mr. Stark hums again, stepping forward into Peter’s space. Peter takes a nervous step back and pulls the ball glove in front of him, throwing hand wrapping around the ball. “I’m, I’m so sorry,” he blurts. “I didn’t, we were playing, I was just trying to-”

“Oh, I was watching the whole thing,” Mr. Stark assures him. “Shocking to see Hellcat engaged in something that isn’t vice. Although that last throw could have been patricide, hard to say.”

Peter thinks that might be a joke, but he isn’t sure. Harley does seem to really enjoy vice.

“Here, let’s head to my study, so I can  _ meet _ you like Harley wants,” Mr. Stark offers, and Peter shivers because there’s other words inside that one word, words that remind him of Bucky saying,  _ quiet, angel _ and Steve’s hand on his cheek.

“Oh, Tony,” says a bright feminine voice from just behind Mr. Stark, “There you are. Harley ran past, said to stop by and see the new recruit?”

Peter looks around Mr. Stark’s bulk and his jaw drops, because there is Pepper Stark, in the flesh. Flash had a pin-up of her, from one of the society page two-spreads, above his lower bunk so he could look up at her, and Peter’d just about memorized her curls and smile, just from sleeping in the next bunk over. “H-hello, ma’am,” he says, ducking his head. 

“Well, he’s a sweet one,” she says brightly. “Oh, Tony, look at how that suit hangs on him, I’ll love putting him in summer linens. Steve says he’s a perfect angel. Bucky says you read?” she asks Peter.

“Oh, just everything,” he tells her, because it’s Pepper Stark and he’s going to babble while he has the chance. “We didn’t have too many books, at the Home, but there’s thousands here, and Karen brings me up the papers every morning with breakfast, so far.”

“Well, I’m officially team adoption,” she murmurs, her lips curving upwards. “Darling, I’m going to go slip out of these travel things, I’ll see you at dinner.” Mr. Stark turns to give her a kiss and then pats her butt as she slips by him. 

Mr. Stark tilts his head after she leaves, considering Peter and Peter looks back, warily. “This way,” he says, finally, gesturing behind him with a sweeping arm that turns into a fast paced walk, not even glancing back. The assumption that Peter will follow is so strong that Peter’s walking behind him before he’s even aware he’s made the decision to follow the man.

~~~

“Here you are,” announces Harley, catching up to them just as Mr. Stark is turning into his study. His face is joyfully alight as he slips in front of Peter and hands off the tumbler to Mr. Stark, another one in his other hand. “Tennessee whisky on ice.”

“Mm,” acknowledges Tony, taking a sip, gesturing for the other men to seat themselves on a green couch while he takes a seat in an armchair adjacent. Harley takes a sip of his drink, and whether or not he knows it, he’s mimicking the exact motions of Mr. Stark. “None for the guest?” asks Tony quietly.

Harley laughs and pats Peter’s thigh. Peter winces a little, because what must that  _ look like _ to someone like Mr. Stark. But then he pauses because, well, Mr. Stark has lived with Harley for four years now. He probably knows all about Harley and Harley's hands. 

Harley’s tone is fond as he tells Mr. Stark, “He’d choke on it. Doubt he’s even had a taste of medicinal brandy.”

“That’s a shame,” murmurs Mr. Stark, and Peter feels a blush creep up his neck. He feels like he should apologize, the man is  _ the  _ rum-running sheik for all of the Eastern Seaboard, but he probably shouldn’t, he decides.

“Where’d he find you?” asks Mr. Stark, conversationally.

“State Home, Queens,” Peter replies promptly, if not exactly proudly.

“I was under the impression the orphan trains were doing good business with all the healthy orphans in New York,” Mr. Stark comments, sipping his drink again.

Peter considers all of his possible responses and decides on the truth. “Matron has to want to give you up to the trains, and if you’re useful enough, well, you’re on errands when Children’s Aid comes through. Nobody’s looking that close at the paperwork.” He’d paid in a small amount of his extra pocket cash every week, to keep it that way, to keep being useful, to stay with MJ and Ned, and there were some weeks where he’d covered their usefulness, too.

Harley sits back suddenly at this, and sips his drink, like he’s hurt that there’s things about Peter that he doesn’t know better than Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark considers him again and says, “You’ve charmed my heir and my wife, my bodyguards, my butler, and my doctor.”

Peter squirms because he wasn’t, he wasn’t _trying_ to. He just didn’t want anyone mad at him, didn’t want anyone to get dangerous. “You can put me back,” he offers, because despite what everyone has been telling him all week, it doesn’t feel like Mr. Stark is _falling_ _in_ _love_ with him. “Or, I’m, I’m a couple months from being kicked out, I can just, I can go early. I’ll figure it out.” He thinks of the sockful of savings that was going to get him new shoes and a heavy winter jacket, a pot and a place to flop while he looked for work, and sighs. Still, he had five days of hot food, and plenty of it, and the warmest bed he’s ever slept in, and the blisters on his feet are almost healed up, which will help. Maybe he can convince Harley to pay him for his time. Or give him a pair of shoes.

Harley makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat and takes another sip. 

“I hear we bought a bunk bed?” inquires Mr. Stark, after a long pause.

Harley nods.

“And Pepper wants him dressed in linens,” sighs Mr. Stark, swirling the ice in his glass.

Harley nods his head again, more firmly this time.

“Well, come here, let’s give it a try,” says Mr. Stark, with a quick gesture of his hand for Peter to approach. Harley shifts in his seat, his whole body announcing his excitement and delight at this declaration. Peter hesitates, raising his eyes to the man’s face for the first time since sitting down. Mr. Stark’s lips are twisted in a small smile. Peter stands, a little awkwardly, dropping the glove and ball on the couch beside Harley. He drags his feet, feeling more awkward with every step, as he walks towards the man. Mr. Stark’s smile twitches, like he finds Peter’s obvious reluctance funny for some reason.

Peter stands in front of him, and his hands knot themselves together, there’s nothing he can do about it, he’s nervous. 

“You want to stay here, with us?” asks Mr. Stark, his voice husky and teasing at the same time. “You like the house, you don’t mind how crazy everything always is around here? They kidnapped you, you know. You could go to the police. I can call them if you need it. Harley could use some softening up in the poke, make him slow down and think.”

Harley makes another wounded noise.

“I’m not a nice man,” Mr. Stark tells him, when Peter just stands there, mind racing. “These hands drip red, keeping my empire afloat, keeping my people safe. You won’t see any of that, but you should know it. There’s whole days I can’t be around nice people like you, shouldn’t be around you.”

Peter has spent a week at the heart of this man’s empire, and he knows what to say to that. “Balance is important,” he tells the man. Harley shifts behind him, but doesn’t say anything, so Peter ignores him.

“Yeah, for me more than most,” agrees Mr. Stark, his eyes never leaving Peter’s face as he takes another sip. “Might could do with some more angels around the place, reminding me to keep my temper.” Peter thinks back to the gossip on the streets, the things the news sheets speculate about, how many bodies turn up in the Hudson, and swallows nervously.

Mr. Stark tilts his head and asks mildly, “Anybody here treat you wrong the whole time you’ve been here? Do anything you didn’t like?”

Peter thinks of Bucky’s thumb, of Harley’s constant teasing, of being stripped by the doc, but shakes his head.

“It’ll be like that, if you stay,” Mr. Stark assures him. “You’d be mine. You’d be untouchable.”

Peter wonders about that, so he repeats, “Untouchable.” He was given the impression that there’d be a lot of touching, is all. There’s been a lot of touching, so far.

A smile cracks across Mr. Stark’s face and he concedes, “Touche. We live a little fast and loose around here, the way I like it, Peter. I like my bodyguards to have a reason to keep my people safe, a reason other than just that I’m paying them. Harley takes care of the boys, they take care of him just a little bit harder. Same goes for Happy and Pepper, Clint and Natasha. I hear from Steve you might not think that’s any kind of hardship.”

Peter stands there, blushing, now, because he had gasped in that kiss with Steve, he  _ had _ , even scared silly out of his mind. “And you?” he asks, because the man is talking more than even Bucky talked to Peter.

Mr. Stark looks up at him and says, “Negotiable.” His eyes are hiding something, Peter realizes. He’s hiding something with that tilt to his head.

“Negotiable,” he repeats, slowly, considering what the man could be hiding. This is an awkward angle, he thinks, his head bent down like this, and it feels  _ wrong _ . He’s not the one with the power in this room, the man in the chair could have him killed in the next five minutes and Harley wouldn’t even cry about it. Mr. Stark sips again while Peter thinks, they shouldn’t call him a  _ sheik _ , he’s a  _ sultan _ .

“Bucky says you’re cracked,” he tells Mr. Stark, because it’s been his main terror, this last week. Harley and Mr. Stark both choke out the same laugh.

“Bucky ain’t screwed down tight himself,” wheezes Harley.

“I’m a little cracked,” agrees Mr. Stark, eyes dancing.

“D-do you need me for what you do with Harley,” stutters Peter, fishing in the dark, because he doesn’t even know what all Mr. Stark does with Harley.

“Nah, I got Harley for what I do with Harley,” teases Mr. Stark, throwing Harley a fond smile. He looks back at Peter and his smile is inviting Peter to join in the joke. “I’d want Peter for what I could do with Peter.”

Peter takes that in. “Why me?” 

“I don’t know, Peter,” Mr. Stark says. “Harley picked you out. Steve and Bucky haven’t shut up about you. All your paperwork just shows some dumb kid from Queens with a bad luck family. I don’t know why you.”

That’s as honest an answer as he could get, concedes Peter. 

“They kidnapped me,” he tells Mr. Stark, the moment after stretching like taffy, Harley just starting to stir when he continues, “but you can keep me, if you want. Since you asked so nicely.”

Mr. Stark chuckles into his glass, sliding his gaze over to Harley and chiding, “You brute.”

Harley laughs, “You shoulda seen him in that flop, Tony, you’d have nabbed him, too. I didn’t care who cried about it, he had blisters three deep on his feet from the shoes he was wearing.”

“What? Smart, useful kid like you?” Mr. Stark asks Peter, eyebrows raising, incredulous.

Peter feels the blush creep up as he admits, “I was waiting for a pair in my size to hit the secondhand shop so I wouldn’t have to pay full price.”

Mr. Stark laughs, “Smart kid. What’s that Harley calls you?”

“Angel,” mutters Peter, rolling his eyes.

“I like it,” Mr. Stark declares.

Of course he does. Peter glares at the carpet.

“You got top bunk or bottom?” asks Mr. Stark.

“Bottom,” answers Peter guardedly. 

Mr. Stark's lips twitch.  “Mm. Well stay out of the big bed tonight, I been missing my boy these last long weeks, wouldn’t want to get confused.” Mr. Stark is teasing him, Peter realizes. He huffs, and kicks at the carpet.

“Okay, seal the deal,” declares Mr. Stark. “See if you can give me a kiss like you gave Steve.”

Harley hoots into his glass, “See? Toldja you shoulda been  _ educated _ this past week, angel.”

“Won’t touch him again ‘til he can vote and draft dodge,” Mr. Stark tells the other man. “Don’t need him for that. Leastways, not right away, not when I got you. I hear your tongue’s been learning new tricks. You can take care of all the pent up that’s gonna build up, not playing with my gift. Be a good lesson, teach you something about not thinking twice before  _ kidnapping _ .”

“But that’s months,” protests Harley. Just under two, calculates Peter, doing fast math.

“Sucks to be a sucker,” Mr. Stark quips back. He looks up at Peter, eyes twinkling, and says, “Well?”

Peter nods, but then feels compelled to warn the man, “My tongue doesn’t know any tricks, not like Harley’s, I only been kissed the once, by Steve.”

“You kept your lips offa him?” Asks Mr. Stark, incredulous again, holding up a hand to draw Peter down onto his knee.

Harley mutters,”He was a  _ gift _ .”

“Virgin sacrifice, more like,” laughs Mr. Stark. “It’s okay, angel,” he tells Peter, eyes twinkling. “Harley can get you up to speed later. I won’t expect too much out of a second kiss.”

Peter frowns, thinking about that “get you up to speed later,” but then thinks about Bucky saying, _lie back and think of England_ and smiles. Mr. Stark makes a funny noise and surges up, and then Peter’s being kissed for the second time in his whole life. It’s not at all like Steve, who had been gentle and patient, if insistent. Mr. Stark is a force of nature, swirling around Peter’s lips, ripping them open, plundering inside. His hand flies up, not to push the man away, but to _hold_ _on_. When Mr. Stark finally releases him, Peter’s gasping.

Harley says, “Holy shit,” in a stunned tone of voice, and Mr. Stark chuckles wickedly, resting his forehead against Peter’s. “Perfect angel,” he murmurs. “Going to be so good to you, baby. Going to make sure everyone knows to treat you right.”

“His name is Peter Stark,” Harley says, smugly, “like mine is Harley Stark now. Because we’re yours. A matched set.”

“My two Dolly sisters,” agrees Mr. Stark, tweaking Peter’s nose when he makes a disgusted face. “Let’s go see this bunk bed, Harley. You didn’t buy it from deFranco, did you?”

Harley scoffs, “Mr. Stark.”

“Oh, I see, wise guy knows better, huh?” laughs Mr. Stark. He stands, and Peter perforce falls off his lap into a stand, as well. Mr. Stark laughs at his discombobulation and says, “Keep them toes tapping, kid, vacation is over. We  _ move _ around here.” Harley is already half-way out of the door, Mr. Stark close behind him, and Peter follows because he knows it’s  _ expected _ that he follows.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the song in the title, if you want it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofXvX5wtyY8
> 
> You can absolutely meet me in the comments section with ideas for future scenes and chapters in this AU. It's definitely very work-in-progress.


End file.
